Gemotions

The attic air tasted stale, thick with dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sunlight. Amelia sifted through the boxes, a rhythmic process of lifting, peering, and setting back down. Each object felt distant, like relics of a life that wasn't hers. A faded photograph of her mother, younger, holding a cat – another life, she supposed. This particular box, labeled "Amelia's School Days," yielded a stack of spiral notebooks, their covers brittle with age.

She flipped through a composition book filled with cursive handwriting. Spelling tests, book reports, the predictable detritus of childhood. A shrug lifted and then settled on her shoulders. The neatness of the writing was a stark contrast to the chaotic state of her current apartment.

Closing the book, she set it aside without another glance, already anticipating the feeling of cool glass against her cheek when she got home. Another box down, another task completed. This was all just… a thing to do.